


give me both your hands

by healingmirth



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 13:17:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10945287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/healingmirth/pseuds/healingmirth
Summary: It's all very picturesque, beautiful couples embracing each other as the lights dip further, and Jon wants nothing to do with it.





	give me both your hands

**Author's Note:**

> This was not what I was planning on doing between midnight and three am, let me tell you what.
> 
>  
> 
> This is all [her](http://baking-soda.tumblr.com) fault for reblogging [May I Have This Dance](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com/post/160828035552/captainmarvel-birdonahotdog-may-i-have-this) late last night, but there is a sad lack of hopeless pining here, so it's off in a universe of it's own.

Jon Lovett: Wedding Hero. He should put it on the business cards that he hasn't gotten around to making yet.

 

He dances with all of Favs’ adorable goddaughters, and miscellaneous cousins once removed - whoever they are, there seem to be a hundred of them, their bedtime is 3am or possibly never, and the musical highlights from Jon’s middle school years have been in heavy rotation for far too long. He changes it up to dance with a couple of bridesmaids, just to make up numbers, and it's fun, it's nice, and it's all very, very casually heteronormative in a way that wants to put Jon’s hackles up, but he'd also like everyone’s relatives to continue speaking to him, and he's had a bit too much to drink to be sure he can read the room.

 

What it means is that he's careening towards exhausted on an existential level as well as a physical one, and he decides he's earned a break when the music’s tempo changes to something slower and sweeter. It's all very picturesque, beautiful couples embracing each other as the lights dip further, and he wants nothing to do with it.

 

The first slow song is halfway over by the time he's collected a glass of water and found his way to a less-occupied table, away from the speakers. He shares a weary, understanding nod with a lovely woman who's got her shoes kicked off and is probably one of the clone army’s parents. He sits down on the opposite side of the table from her and neither of them say a word. It's great. Sitting is great. The glass of water is _transcendent_.

 

The song changes over to something else he doesn't recognize but maybe it's Phil Collins? Is he still alive? Whoever it is, it’s good news and he's still off duty; slow dancing with strangers remains a bridge too far, and he's not going to make eye contact with anyone, just in case.

 

He's thinking about resting his head on the table, just for a second, when Tommy drops down into the chair next to him. He doesn't say anything either, which is, frankly, a little annoying; Tommy is not good at either idleness, so the clock is now ticking. Like Jon hasn't done enough already. But if Tommy can sit here and keep being whatever he's being, only quietly, great. If he can't, Jon will remain committed to being Off Duty for at least the rest of this glass of water. Maybe he needs to post a sign. 

 

“So I thought,” Tommy says after a few more seconds tick by. 

 

Jon cocks his head to the side, raises his eyebrows in question. Tommy's flushed and his hair's a little fluffy, like he'd forgotten to get it cut last week. Or like he got rode hard and put away wet, and sweet fucking Christ if he hooked up with some nice girl and needs Jon to help him away from it-

 

“Jon,” Tommy says, and then steals Jon’s glass of water to take a hasty sip, and then he's got to catch a drop of water quick with his thumb, before it drips down to his collar. This is not going well for either of them.

 

“Tommy,” Jon says back. “I assume your thought was something other than saying my name.” Nothing, though Tommy swallows again. “Though you can, free country for now and all. Did you know, if you like the way it rolls off your tongue, there's at least one other person here who you could try it on? Hell, I bet you can find five of us if you're up for a little recon.”

 

“Lovett,” Tommy says, but he's smiling now. “Will you dance with me?” A pause, where presumably he thought Jon would answer him, but Jon’s got nothing. “I'd like it if you'd dance with me.”

 

“I heard you the first time,” Jon says, trying to process. Tommy doesn't look like he's joking. He looks like he's thinking. “I do know what all those words mean. I know all the best words. Some of them are even polysyllabic.”

 

That's still not an answer, and Tommy doesn't do the gracious/infuriating thing and wait him out. What Tommy does is he stands up, extends his hand to Jon, and then fucking _bows_ and murmurs “may I have this dance,” in a way that is absolutely unfair. If no one nearby was paying any attention to Jon before, they are now. The lady across from them certainly is, and looks like she's about two seconds from taking Tommy’s offer if Jon doesn't. Jon knows when he's been outmanoeuvred, even if he doesn't know why.

 

So Jon takes Tommy’s hand and lets himself be shepherded away from curious eyes and out to the middle of the dance floor. He lets himself be drawn in until Tommy's got one hand resting lightly on back. The other hand, the one still holding Jon’s, is twisted up between them, gripped tight for a few beats as if he thinks Jon might bolt for the woods.

 

And then, they're dancing. Tommy leads, of course, because he's a giant and also Jon’s repertoire is only appropriate for baby-sitting or dark, sweaty clubs, with very little in between. It's. It's nice, alongside how it's torture. He's very solid, which is one thing to note dispassionately, aesthetically, from across a room, or as a nuisance when passing in a narrow hallway. It’s something else entirely when Jon has one hand splayed on Tommy's chest over his thumping heart, and Tommy is effortlessly steering them clear of the other couples. There's a joke trying to form in Jon’s brain about comportment classes, maybe cotillions, except he's pretty sure those are supposed to be a southern thing.

 

He managed to resist putting his head down on the table. He does not resist resting his head on Tommy's shoulder, and then closing his eyes and then they're swaying around the dance floor to a song that's too romantic by half. When the chorus comes around again, Jon can feel Tommy humming along, his brain is hopelessly confused and the rest of him wants to do this forever, in the most troubling possible way.

 

He can figure that part out later, once whatever this is is over, and they're back in their comfortable routines. All he has to do is keep breathing, and not look up at Tommy’s face for another ninety seconds or so. And then Tommy turns his head, and for a second, half a second, even, his lips are pressed to Jon's temple, his nose in Jon’s hair.

 

Jon manages to keep breathing, but all that does is fill his lungs with Tommy’s scent, salt and aftershave and a tickle of some flowery detergent he's started using. Tommy’s thumb strokes up and back down Jon’s spine, and that's it.

 

Jon takes a step back. Tommy follows him, like it's just a new direction for the dance, until Jon uses the hand that's still pressed against his chest to make some space, look up and into Tommy’s eyes. He's still flushed, sheepish, and the stupid fucking song is echoing “can I say something crazy / I love you” in Jon's head, while the actual music rolls over to the apparently timeless warbling of “At Last.”

 

“Really,” Jon says. As always, it comes out fonder and less flat than he'd intended.

 

“I didn't plan that part,” Tommy says. “And yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

 

“We're going to have to work on you being less of a cliche,” Jon says. “Extensive private tutoring, perhaps.”

 

A goofy smile breaks across Tommy’s face, and he's really lucky Jon likes him so much. “Yeah?” 

 

“Yeah." Jon says. "But you picked a hell of a moment, Tommy Vietor. I've always hated this song.”

 

“I'm okay with that,” Tommy says, and Jon has time for one more breath before their lips meet.

**Author's Note:**

> apparently I am [on tumblr](http://healingmirth.tumblr.com/post/160839637534/give-me-both-your-hands) now. help.


End file.
